“The office will be fine. Shall I go up first and unlock it for you?”
“No problem. I have passkeys to all the rooms. Maintenance, you know.”
“Oh. Of course,” she said. It did make sense. Sam must have them too. And what about Gert and Molly? Housekeepers certainly needed access to keep things tidy. It all made sense, but the thought was still disturbing. She needed time to get a handle on this place, but time seemed to be the one thing she didn’t have.
The side entrance opened into a corridor housing a guest laundry, soda and ice machines, leading to the main lobby and the elevator. At its base was a cat door. So Bogie and Bacall had access to the inn from outdoors. Maureen was pleased about that, and made a mental note to use the side entrance herself occasionally, bypassing the front lobby and—not incidentally—the questioning quartet in the front-porch rockers.
Chapter 17
She heard Finn’s welcoming “woof” as soon as she stepped off the elevator and approached the suite. She unlocked the door and was met with excited prancing.
“What’s all the excitement about, boy?” She scratched behind his ears. “What’s going on?” The golden led her to the narrow window just behind the cat tower where a branch of the oak tree just outside held the answer to her question. There they were, peering in. Bogie and Bacall.
“Looks like they want to come inside, doesn’t it?” She searched for the crank that would open the window. “Will you behave if I let them in? It’s their house too, you know.”
She turned the handle and two panes swung inward. Bogie moved carefully from the tree branch onto the narrow balcony and entered first, crouching on the middle platform of the tower. Aster had been right about him. He was big and tough looking. He fixed green eyes on Finn, giving a warning hiss.
Finn sat, watchful, not moving. Bacall followed, putting one foot daintily in front of the other, she climbed onto the top tier of the carpeted structure. She looked around, then sat upright, tail wrapped around front paws, as regally as any proud lioness might.
“Woof,” Finn said.
Bacall uttered a trilling purr. Bogie stood, puffing out his fur, making himself look even bigger, glared at Finn for a long moment, then sat in a pose similar to Bacall’s.
Maureen didn’t know what to make of it all. “What do you think, Finn?” she whispered, not taking her eyes away from the cat tower and its occupants. “Are they going to accept us?”
Finn seemed to have it figured out. He backed away from the tower, uttering a soft “woof,” and sat, tail wagging in his very friendliest fashion. Bacall extended a paw, and batted a small red ball to the edge of her platform, then with her nose knocked it to the floor. Finn took the cue, picked up the ball, returned it to the base of the tower, retreated to his former position, and waited for her next move. Next came a catnip mouse, followed by a well-chewed badminton shuttlecock. Finn carefully returned each one.
“I get it,” Maureen said. “You’re promising not to mess with them or their stuff.”
Bogie apparently got it too. He jumped down to the floor, tail held high, walked slowly and deliberately past Finn and Maureen, and headed into the kitchen. Bacall left her top-tier perch and hopped down to the one Bogie had vacated, lay at the edge, eyes focused on her toys below.
Maureen picked up the red ball. “Here’s your ball,” she said—placing it beside the gray cat, followed with the other items—“and your mouse and your birdie.” Bacall acknowledged the gesture with another of those trilling purrs, descending gracefully from the tower and following Bogie into the kitchen.
“I guess they’re hungry,” she said. “Crisis apparently averted. Good job, Finn. Maybe you’d better stay here while I feed them. Okay?” She gave the “stay” command. Finn sat and Maureen followed the cats.
Within a few minutes, cats fed, watered, and apparently happily hunched over their individual bowls, Maureen tiptoed away from the tranquil scene and rejoined Finn in the living room.
Finn was no longer alone.
“Oh, hi there, Maureen. Old Finn is quite the peacemaker, isn’t he? That could have been ugly, but he handled it like a pro.” Lorna Dubois, gorgeous in Maureen’s brand-new, super-cute Kate Spade flower-print knotted halter bikini top with matching classic bikini bottom, knelt beside Finn, scratching behind his ears.
Maureen couldn’t help thinking that—even in semiopaque black and white—Lorna’s movie starlet, twenty-six-year-old form filled out the swimsuit better than Maureen ever would, or even would have when she was twenty-six. “Hello, Lorna. You were here for all that?”
“Sure. It freaks the cats out if I pop in suddenly. So I waited ’til they left. It didn’t seem like a good time to rile them up.”
“Going to the beach?” Maureen asked, in as pleasant a tone as she could muster at the moment.
“Oh, this?” The ghost stood, did a model-type turn. “No. Just wanted to see how it looked. Pretty good, huh?” Another whirl. “I might want to wear it for Elvis’s birthday celebration at Graceland in January. They have an indoor pool.”
“Graceland?”
“Yeah! Everybody who was anybody goes to Graceland at least once a year. Elvis’s birthday is one of the best times to be there.”
“Let me get this straight. You people—um—spirits get to travel around at will, haunting as you go?”
“Well, not all of us. Every place has its resident population—the ones who stay in one place, you know?” Lorna sat on the floor beside Finn. “Some of them stay in one town— or maybe one house. Some even stay in one room. Like the guy in suite twenty-seven.” She put her arms around the dog’s neck. “Would bore the hell out of me.”
“Have you seen him? The ghost?”
“I haven’t. Never went into those rooms.” She adjusted a strap on the bikini top and looked away from Maureen. “I think he’s a really bad one. I don’t want anything to do with him. All the rest of us in Haven are nice, or interesting, or at least easy to get along with. I don’t even like talking about him.”
“Okay. Let’s talk about Elvis then. Does he stay at Graceland all the time?”
“No. He gets around a lot. I’ve only seen him once and I go to Graceland at least a couple of times a year. I’ve heard that he spends a lot of time in California. He still likes to keep an eye on Priscilla.”
“How does he look now?”
“Now? He’s twenty-five again. He looks like he did when he first got out of the Army. Young and fit and trim and sexy.” Lorna’s smile was wide.
“That’s nice to know. Tell me, do you ever think about moving on from here? Going to ‘the light’ or ‘crossing the rainbow bridge,’ or whatever the next destination is?” Maureen changed the subject. “I’ve always wondered about that.”
“Me too,” Lorna agreed. “It’s true about that light, though. I saw it when I fell into the prompter’s box and broke my neck. The thing is, I didn’t know what it led to. Still don’t. Anyway, I like it here.”
Bacall selected that moment to stroll back into the living room, giving Finn a wide berth, acknowledging Maureen with an almost ankle rub before climbing once again onto the top of the tower, where she proceeded to wash her face and paws. Oddly, she seemed to walk straight through Lorna. Maureen couldn’t help gasping. “Doesn’t she see you?”
“Sure she does. She does that on purpose.”
“Why?”
“Who knows? She thinks it’s funny. Cats are weird, aren’t they, Finn?”
“Woof,” Finn agreed.
“Does Bogie do it too?”
“Him? Never. Most of the time he just pretends he can’t see me.”
“If you’ll excuse me, I’m about to pretend I can’t see you either. I have work to do in my office.”
“Suite twenty-seven?”
“Of course.”
“I guess you haven’t seen—uh—anything down there?”
“A sighting of the man in the closet? George told me about him.” Maureen smiled. “Not
a thing. Whoever—whatever was there, if it ever was, probably left years ago.”
“They say he sits on the bed.” Lorna shuddered. Or shimmered. “That he cries for his mother.”
“There’s no bed. Nothing in the bedroom at all. Nothing in the closet except some old guest registers.”
“If you say so. See you later. Bye, Finn.”
Before Finn could woof goodbye, she was gone.
Chapter 18
George had delivered the Halloween decoration in their plastic boxes to suite twenty-seven as promised. They were arranged in a row, side by side, just inside the doorway of the empty room. They’d have to wait a while for her attention, Maureen decided. She closed the door on them and with a sharpened #2 pencil, a calculator, a yellow pad, spreadsheets, payroll records, and a handful of random invoices spread out over the top of the beautiful desk, Maureen contemplated the future of the Haven House Inn, and—not so incidentally—her own.
At first glance it didn’t look good. With further inspection, it looked worse. Plainly, the Haven House Inn was close to insolvency and creeping up on bankruptcy. On the plus side, the taxes were up-to-date and there was no mortgage. It appeared that Maureen owned the place free and clear—such as it was.
Elizabeth’s payroll figures made some sense. Paychecks, handwritten in the company checkbook by Elizabeth, seemed to balance properly. Total hours worked at the stated wage per hour, minus taxes and Social Security, looked fine. But where was the record of employees’ rent paid? Grocery receipts were haphazard, tossed into a file folder. Some were from Tampa and St. Petersburg food wholesalers, but too many were at full retail from neighborhood grocery stores. Guest receipts were more orderly because of credit card records—but totals seemed too small.
After two hours, Maureen put down her pencil. The bottom line showed a projected minus within months. If the place was going to keep from drowning in red ink, something had to be done to stop the leaks. The obvious ones needed to be plugged and new avenues of revenue needed to be found. Like, right now.
Maureen’s successful career in retailing led her immediately to the fact that the fastest way to bring in cash is to sell merchandise at a profit. That led to the recent discovery that she owned a literal warehouse full of merchandise that was costing money for storage. Penelope Josephine Gray had thoughtfully lettered all of those plastic containers with their contents. Maureen recalled a few she’d noticed. Beach towels. Bathing suits. Beach toys. Children’s clothes. In the next room she already had a treasure trove of decorations that undoubtedly were regarded as “antiques.”
Maybe we’ll be hosting Haven’s largest garage sale, she thought. Penelope Josephine Gray might not approve, but the Haven House Inn’s hoard had to go. And quickly. The inventory Maureen had planned for “later” had to happen soon. She’d need some expert help with this. She began a list. “Antiques appraiser. Estate sale planner. Tax-deductible charities.”
Her concentration was broken by the buzzing of her phone. Impatiently, she answered, “Yes?”
“Maureen? . . . It’s Elizabeth. You need to come down here right away. Officer Hubbard wants to talk to you.”
“All right,” Maureen said. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
“Now,” Elizabeth said, and hung up.
“She doesn’t need to sound so pleased about it,” Maureen grumbled, organizing the papers on her desk, putting them into an empty drawer. “What does he want now, anyway?”
Since Elizabeth had made it sound urgent, Maureen opted for the elevator. Glad she’d taken time to shower and change from jeans and T-shirt to a neat pale blue denim jumpsuit, she approached the lobby where Officer Hubbard and Elizabeth stood at the entrance to the dining room. Elizabeth smiled. The policeman did not.
“Good afternoon, Officer Hubbard,” Maureen said. “You wanted to see me?”
“Yes, Ms. Doherty. Let me get right to the point. I’d like your permission to take a look at your apartment.”
“My apartment?” she echoed. “Whatever for?”
“Routine investigation,” he said. “Your permission?”
“What in the world would you be looking for in my apartment?”
He scowled. Not an attractive look for him. “Are you refusing?”
“Of course not.” What was going on here? Maureen looked from the policeman to Elizabeth and back. Elizabeth was not frowning, but shrugging her shoulders in an I don’t know what’s going on either posture. “Do you want to go up right now?” Maureen asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“Okay. Come on. Do you prefer the elevator or the stairs?” They’d already drawn a few stares from guests. She hoped he’d opt for the stairs, where the odds of sharing space with anyone were minimal. She headed for the stairway and he followed. Thankfully, Elizabeth stayed behind.
When they’d reached the third-floor landing, Maureen pulled the room key from her pocket and started toward her suite. Hubbard followed. She heard Finn’s soft, welcoming “woof” and wondered if the cats were at home too.
“Nobody else lives on this floor except you?” Hubbard asked.
“Just me,” she said, pushing the door open. “Elizabeth calls it the penthouse. Come on in.”
The cats were at home. Bogie looked down from the top of the cat tower. Bacall had positioned herself right behind Finn as he gave me his usual hand-nuzzling, tail-wagging welcome. Hubbard hesitated in the doorway. “Ms. Gray’s cats are back, I see.”
“Yes. They arrived today. Fortunately, they seem to have accepted Finn and me.” He stepped inside the room. “Is there anything in particular you want to see?” she asked, keeping her tone even, her words polite.
“You’ve been here a short time.” He walked toward the large window, looked outside. “Is everything here just about the way you found it? As Ms. Gray left it?”
“Yes. I haven’t changed anything. Just added a few things I’d brought with me. A couple of lamps, some pictures, books, Finn’s dog food, a vase.” She pointed to the crystal vase with its now-wilted daisies. “I’ve unpacked my clothes of course. My office items are downstairs.”
“In suite twenty-seven,” he said.
“Of course.”
“Had Ms. Gray left the rooms here . . . provisioned for you?”
“You mean like with groceries and cat food and paper towels? Someone did a lovely job with all that. I don’t know that it was Ms. Gray.”
“Uh-huh. Mind if I look around?”
She did mind. “Help yourself,” she said. “May I tag along?”
“Sure. It’s your penthouse.”
She followed him into the kitchen. Bacall and Finn did too. He pulled open the door of the cabinet full of canned goods. “Nice,” he said. “All this was here?”
“It was. I haven’t used any of it yet. I’ve been eating in the dining room.”
“Sure. Why not? You own it.” He closed the cabinet, opened the silverware drawer, and closed it.
Was he being deliberately annoying? “Yes, I do,” she said.
“The bathroom in here?” He pointed to the bedroom door.
She didn’t answer but followed him into the bedroom. “Wow. Nice room,” he said, opening the door to her closet. “This all your stuff?”
“Yes.”
He closed the closet and opened the bathroom door. “Pink,” he said.
“Yes.”
He pulled open the mirrored medicine cabinet. “These all your things?”
“No. I’ve never looked inside it before.” She peered over his shoulder. She tapped the makeup case she’d left on the marble countertop along with her shampoo and deodorant. “I haven’t finished unpacking my own bathroom stuff yet.” The glass shelves contained the usual items—rubbing alcohol, peroxide, petroleum jelly, aspirin, laxative pills, a couple of brown medicine bottles, a package of cotton swabs, adhesive bandages. “Must have been Ms. Gray’s,” she said, glad she hadn’t put her own various feminine products on display for prying eyes t
o inspect.
“Uh-huh,” he said. He reached into an inside jacket pocket, removed a pair of blue gloves. From another pocket he drew several clear plastic bags. “Uh-huh,” he said again as he pulled on the gloves. He reached into the cabinet, moving aside a blue glass eye cup, picking up one of the brown bottles. He studied the label. Maureen recognized the Walgreens drugstore logo but couldn’t see the small print from where she stood. Hubbard slipped the bottle into a plastic bag, sealed it, and picked up another. This time, “A-ha” replaced “Uh-huh.”
Maureen moved closer and understood the “A-ha” immediately. Beneath the Walgreens logo she read the word “digitalis.” She remembered Hubbard’s explanation for what had killed Conrad Wilson. “A large dose of a fairly common heart medicine,” he’d said—and digitalis surely fit that description. She watched silently as he slipped the bottle into another plastic bag and sealed it.
Chapter 19
It was Maureen’s turn for an “A-ha” moment. The brown bottle in her medicine cabinet might very well contain the poison that had killed the ghost hunter. She watched the policeman’s face as he pocketed the bottle. “Surely you don’t think . . . ? You’re not somehow connecting me to . . . ?” She felt as though she needed to sit down—and would have if the closest place to do so hadn’t been the pink-chenille-covered toilet seat.
His voice was gruff. “I don’t think anything—I don’t make connections. That’s not my job. I collect evidence. Period.” He left the bathroom and looked back at her. “That’s all for now. Shall I let myself out?”
“No. No. That’s all right.” She remembered her manners. “I’m coming.” She hurried past him, past the watching cats and dog, and opened the door. “Will you keep me informed about what you learn from”—she nodded toward his suit pocket—“from that? From Ms. Gray’s prescription?”
“Of course. I’ll be around.” She watched as he strode toward the elevator, then ducked back into her own space. Her safe, serene, quite attractive, well-provisioned, and comfortable space. At least, it had seemed to be all that until a few minutes earlier. The cats had come down from the tower and now sat, watchful, together on the blue couch. Finn lay nearby, tail wagging, and gave a short “woof.”
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